


In the hour of the wolf we learn to falter

by skyholdherbalist



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood, Cunnilingus, Dunmer - Freeform, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Scent Kink, Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 20:50:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12350424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyholdherbalist/pseuds/skyholdherbalist
Summary: Vilkas has been traveling with the new Companion for days, a brash Dunmer woman who rejected, and still fears, the Beast Blood.Straining to suppress it, he finds himself slowed, tired—and as vulnerable to the threats of Skyrim as he is to the charms of a dark-eyed girl who smells like the sea.





	1. Chapter 1

Just as the afternoon became uncomfortably hot, they arrived at a clearing, shady and cool, a flat patch in this low ridge north of the Eastern Jerralls they had tracked along, beating a slow path back to Whiterun. 

Vilkas paused near a clump of ferns and wiped his forehead, and watched as Fearnhe, the newest Shield-Sister, marched on through the glen, taking no notice of anything. He sighed. "Stop a moment,“ he called to her, loosening the pack strap from his chest. He watched her stop in her tracks, then slowly turn and walk back, as he lifted the pack from his body, settling it by his feet. 

Fearnhe tilted her head to the side. "Tired already, Vilkas? It’s at least two hours more to Ivarstead.” She smiled, but it wasn’t kind: it was a challenge. 

He didn’t accept. Unbuckling the fur belt at his waist, he smiled back. "Nature calls.“

She rolled her eyes, and sat on a nearby stump with a huff. "I’ll wait here, then.”

Four days they’d been together, he thought as he made his way into a dark copse of trees. Four days and finally headed back to Jorrvaskr. And he—not exactly known for a generous nature—saddled with the whelp, a Dunmer girl too eager to prove herself, and to prove everyone wrong before they had a chance to say anything. He’d had his doubts about Fearnhe, even after her Proving, that this poor refugee wanted nothing more than food and a bed, and would fight to get it. That made her hardly worse than Torvar; still Vilkas would not have the Companions be used. But she was determined. Cocky, even. She could be hard to take, some days.

On a good day, though, it was charming. He liked her confidence, her strength. Further, it had not escaped his notice that she was pretty—all dark flashing eyes, sharp smiles, her skin silver blue, like a storm at sea. And her scent… He found a shell once near the port in Solitude, and it held the scent of the water there: warm, salty, delicate. He’d kept that shell. 

Heading back to the clearing, Vilkas admitted to himself, as he never would to Fearnhe, that he _was_ tired. He strained against the beast blood these days. Though Fearnhe knew of the blood’s secret, she did not share it. He sensed—he smelled—that it frightened her more than she let on. Suppressing the change, the blood, made him slow. He had been caught off guard by a mad wolf, of all things, the day before. Bit hard on the forearm, and the wound was sluggish to heal—the wolf must have eaten something poisonous that made it attack. The bite was not so painful, but continued to bleed.

Fearnhe had not moved from the stump, but leaned forward to ruffle through some low, pink flowers at her feet. When she heard him approach, she shot up. "Finally. I know it gets slower with age,“ she said, "but I thought you’d fallen and couldn’t get up.” Vilkas shook his head at her. It had been a good day, so far. 

Bending for his pack, he felt a wetness at his wrist. The wrap on the wound likely needed changing. He pulled off his gloves and the bracer over the wound.

“What now?” Fearnhe asked. 

“This bite is still bleeding.” He peeled away the linen wrapping, now dark with blood.

She sighed. “Sit down, let me clean and wrap it.” She crouched down to rummage through his pack. 

“I can handle it,” he said firmly. 

“And look like a fool trying to tie off a bandage with one hand.” She found extra linens, and water, and the blisterwort salve Tilma had made him long ago, though it hadn’t done much for this. “Don’t fight me. Sit.” She pointed to the stump.

He sat. She knelt in the dirt before him, and settled between his legs. They had been close before, in fights, sometimes surrounded, back against back. Not like this. Her scent filled the space between them: the warmth of her skin, soft sweat at her hairline, even the tea she’d had at breakfast still lingered on her lips. She gave his arm a skeptical look, then took it in her hands. They were cool and soft against his skin. 

Fearnhe took the water and poured it over his arm, wiped it clean. She was surprisingly gentle, the hand that held his arm softly gripping. It had been a long time since he was touched this way: tenderly, not a strike or blow. A caress, nearly. He swallowed as he watched her, felt her, massage the salve into his skin. He fought the urge to pull away. 

She looked up into his eyes. “You won’t want to hear this, but you need a healer.” 

“Why don’t you know any healing spells?” he asked, his voice more even than he felt.

“I’m better at destruction,” she said. “You want me to blow your arm off, I can do that.” She worked the salve into the ragged edges of the bite carefully. “Hopefully we find a healer in Ivarstead, though it will by late when we get there by now,” she said pointedly. “Might have to wait for the morning. Think you’ll make it?”

“Your concern is touching,” he said.

She put away the salve and took up the linen. “I just don’t want to cart around a sick old man.” She smiled that challenging smile.

He snorted. “And just how _young_ are you?”

Wrapping the linen carefully around the wound, she replied, “I’ll be seven and twenty next Sun’s Dusk.”

Vilkas himself was barely over thirty. By her demeanor, her drive, he would have guessed her much younger, though he knew his own gruff, quiet nature aged him in the eyes of the others—a prematurely old man who had seen it all. Perhaps he had. “Hardly a child,” he said, laughing, “to mock me so much.” 

She didn’t even bother to look up. “Still younger than you, I’m sure,” she said, tightening the wrap. “And faster. And much better looking.” 

He allowed himself to look her over, noticing the dark blush at the tips of her ears, that her cheekbones were dusted with faint freckles, that her full lips were a rosy gray, and between them peeked the tip of her tongue, snowberry red. “The last I will grant you,” he said in a low voice.

Fearnhe looked up, her expression a blank surprise, but it melted all too quickly into a knowing smirk. She looked down to tie the wrapping, but she could not hide her smile. He felt his pulse throbbing. He felt her heart quicken, too, felt a heat radiating from her. Her scent was shaded with fear, and desire, and a challenge to him, to make a move. But he didn't—he stayed still, feeling her work at his arm, feeling the air change between them. 

“All done,” she said softly. She looked into his eyes, and placed a hand on his thigh. She squeezed his leg, firm but gentle, kneading his flesh, and pushed herself to stand, her fingers dragging against him. Vilkas looked up at her, the tree-dappled sun glinting in her black hair. His mouth was dry. “Need help getting up?“ she asked. 

He scoffed, and stood, still facing her, still close. “Thank you,” he said, looking deeply into her black eyes. 

She stared at him for a moment, unreadable, then turned away. “Come on, then,” she sighed, striding off through the glen. 

He slung on his pack and followed her, watching her light steps.


	2. Chapter 2

They’d arrived late to Ivarstead, as Fearnhe predicted, the shops all closed, the healer asleep, only the inn warm and open with a fire, waiting food, and a single room. Vilkas had offered to give her the room and sleep in a chair outside—she refused. He offered to give her the bed and use the rickety straw cot—again she refused. “Give the soft bed to the invalid,” she told the innkeeper. 

“That cot’ll fall apart on you,” the keep said, wiping out a stained cup. 

“So will he if he doesn’t get some sleep,” she had said. He listened to them banter, silent, his face a practiced grimace. But he thought he had begun to understand her, that this was her way of caring. If he was wrong… well, he didn’t want to ruin it.

And now, in that soft bed, he couldn’t sleep. Stripped down to his breeches, his skin was burning, his breath short. He turned over noisily, then turned again, the bedstraw rustling. At the foot of the bed, Fearnhe lay sleeping, her form huddled in the small cot. He’d never been a deep sleeper, the beast blood made him less so, but this was different. Was he poisoned by that bite, more ill than he knew? Or was it his mind? His thoughts raced, replaying old memories, newer ones, the past few days. And when his traitorous mind settled, it settled on one image: Fearnhe, kneeling before him, her hand squeezing his thigh. He groaned and turned over again away from the wall. He gripped his thigh in the same spot, as though to erase the memory of her touch. It did not help. Sighing, he shut his eyes tight. 

After a few moments a light flickered beyond his closed eyelids. He blinked his eyes open, to see Fearnhe in a chair opposite the bed, lighting a lamp with a small spark of fire magic. She curled up into the chair, pulling the hem of her linen tunic down over her bare legs, holding a book in front of the lamp. “What are you doing?” he asked. 

She looked over the book at him. “Your tossing in that bed kept me awake,” she said. “I thought I’d read until I pass out.” She went back to her book. 

He wanted to argue with her, she had chosen to share the room with him, but at heart he did not blame her. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor, perched at the edge of the bed, and held his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes. “I apologize,” he said. 

She looked up again, concerned, and put down the book. “Are you all right?“ she asked. 

He didn’t know how to answer, so he shook his head. He could sense her nerves as she stood up. She wanted to come closer, but she didn’t, as though he were a wild animal. 

“Is your arm bothering you?” she asked gently. “Do you… need anything?” 

Vilkas sighed. “I am fine,” he said. “Just restless. Again, I am sorry for waking you.” He looked around for his shirt. “I will go outside. You may have the bed,” he said, beginning to stand. 

“No, don’t,” she said, stepping forward, and he sat back. She stood in front of him, nearly between his legs again. “You look so flushed. Are you feverish?” Fearnhe reached forward, tentatively, and placed her hand against his forehead, her cool palm tingling. He stared up at her, frozen. She moved her hand over his head, her nails dragging against his scalp, to palm the back of his neck. 

His breath was so shallow now, his chest gripped by a sweet ache, dizzy as his blood rushed to his groin. “I do not think so,” he choked out. 

She held his neck in her hand, stroking softly, and she looked him up and down. Then she looked away, a shy smile on her face, something he had never seen. “My mother had a trick for finding fever,” she said. “A kiss on the forehead.” 

He swallowed, hard. “I’ve never heard of that.” 

She nodded, and leaned down, her eyes closing. When her lips touched his skin, he sighed raggedly. It took all of his worn restraint to stay still. 

Fearnhe pulled back and looked at him, her dark eyes glittering. “I think you’re all right.”

Her touch, her scent, her kiss, all made him tremble with want. But it was the look in her eyes that broke Vilkas.

He reached behind him and pulled her hand from his neck, bringing it to his mouth. He heard her choked gasp as he kissed her fingers, licking the soft webbing between them. He sucked softly on a fingertip, then dragged his teeth along her palm. 

He nipped at her wrist, wetly kissing the delicate bones there. Then he spread his legs further open, and tugged at her arm to pull her closer to him, to hold her between his knees. His mouth found the inside of her elbow, his tongue pressed hard against her pulse, panting, smelling the blood coursing through her.

She brushed his shoulder with her free hand, and he let go of her arm, looked up at her. Her shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths. She lifted her coarse linen shift over her head, and tossed it backward, her dusky, warm body exposed to him. He leaned into her, wrapped his weak arms around her waist, and breathed into the skin between her breasts. "Fearnhe,“ he whispered against her. 

She pushed him, tenderly, away from her, onto the bed, and crawled over him as he lay back. Hovering over him, she searched his face, brushed the hair from his eyes. She was so gentle now, so different. He did not know how much more of her gentleness he could take. 

He took hold of her and flipped them over smoothly, so she lay beneath him. She leaned her head back, bit her lip, waiting for what he would do. 

Vilkas held her waist, dragged his fingers down to her hips, and gripped tightly there, his eyes never leaving hers. He sighed, swept his hands to her inner thighs, and parted her legs. 

He kissed her thigh, the crook of her knee, rubbed his cheek against her shin, all the time breathing deeply of her. This was _her_ scent, the scent at her core. The warm salt of her skin was a shadow compared to this. He scraped his fingernails against her thigh. His blood needed more.

The first taste of her spilled onto his tongue so brightly he felt the bed spin beneath them, nearly losing his grip. His nose was buried in her hair as he panted and licked at her. He could hear her whining groans, but he did not look, his eyes closed, letting his other senses take her in: the press of her thighs at his shoulders, the soft folds of her sex against his flicking tongue, and that scent… His cock burned, aching against his breeches. Fumbling beneath him, he undid his laces and freed himself to thrust against the rough, wool bedclothes as he tasted her. 

He licked up her center, and thrust his tongue inside her, drinking her in. Then he circled her pearl, gently, slowly, as she jerked against his mouth. For only a moment, he took it in his teeth, a soft, playful bite. Her moans sounded stuck in her throat, and she clawed at his shoulders, barely in reach. The scrape of her fingers against his skin made him shiver, made him lick and bite at her with a stronger hunger, his tongue exploring every fold. 

He suckled at her pearl, his lips surrounding it, kissing. He kissed it as he had yet to do to her mouth, poured all his desire into this one act. A kiss to make her fall apart.

A choked cry broke from her as she reached her peak, her hands gripping the bed. With some regret, he pulled his mouth away from her to sit up, to see her. He pressed two thick fingers into her roughly, thrusting, and with his other hand bore down on her chest, holding her to the bed as he fucked her with his fingers, and she rode out her frenzy. 

Watching her writhe, he leaned over her, a growl in his throat. His fingers curled with desire, scratched red lines into the delicate skin at her chest. All of him pulsed with desire, with his heated heartbeat. His hunger, his blood, had clouded his mind fully. He realized, with a chill of fear, that he was out of control. His body trembled. 

He did not want to give in to it. Her, he could please—that was its own satisfaction, to see her blushing and spent beneath him. But he feared it was too much for him now. That the blood was taking over. 

Vilkas took his fingers from her, caressed her chest where he’d left the mark of his hunger, and bent down to kiss her, slowly, her lips cool and dry, so soft against his. He bit gently at her full bottom lip. She barely moved, her eyes closed. 

He lay down beside her, his back to her, trying to control himself, counting his breaths. 

After a few moments, he felt her—her fingers stroking his shoulder, her soft breasts pressed against his back. Her breath at his ear. 

Fearnhe reached her arm around him, a palm on his chest, the gentlest mimic of what he had done to her. It surprised him, how much he longed for her to touch him, and that he did not know it until she had. Her fingers combed through the curls there, and dragged her hand down his stomach. He gasped as her hand settled at his cock, still painfully hard. She gripped him, and he choked out a moan, half-swallowed. 

She stroked him, soft at first, then with pressure, and speed, as she breathed into his ear, her body moving rhythmically against his in time with her strokes. He bit his lip, grunting, his eyes shut tight. He let himself be still, let her control him. He did not move, just breathed, tried to lean into the pleasure of it, moaning softly. 

She nipped at his earlobe and whispered, "Vilkas.”

Then he could no longer contain himself. He let out a strangled groan as he spilled over her hand, and onto the bed, his legs rigid, his voice caught in his throat, in his ear her steady breath. She kept stroking him, her hand and his cock covered in his release, until it became too much, and he pushed her hand from him, panting. 

Fearnhe turned from his body. The loss of her next to him was sudden, and cold. He moved to face her. Her dark eyes were heavy-lidded, and she licked her lips. He put an arm around her, wetly kissed the crook of her neck, breathing into her skin there, until sleep took him.


	3. Chapter 3

When Vilkas woke, it was already bright day. He was alone in the center of the bed. 

He sat up, scratching his face, swallowing hard, wondering how to face the day, to face her. Fearing, and hoping.

He found Fearnhe in the main hall, fully dressed in her armor, sitting at the common table before some stale bread and ale, cutting an apple. She looked up when he entered, expressionless, then turned back to her food. "Morning,“ he said, taking a place on the bench beside her. 

She nodded, concern and distraction clouding her eyes, then whispered a sharp curse. The blade had slipped and cut her thumb. “All right?” he asked.

“It’s nothing,” she said, her jaw tight, examining her thumb.

He reached out for her, wrapped his fingers gently around her wrist. “Let me see.” 

There was a dark bead of blood on the pad of her thumb. A small cut, but deep enough to hurt. He lifted it to his mouth, kissing it, licking the blood from her skin. With her thumb in his mouth he looked at her, and where last night there was a heated desire, he saw only wide-eyed fear. She pulled her arm away from him. 

“Listen, I…” she trailed off, picking chunks out of her half loaf of bread, tossing them back on her plate. In a low voice, she said, “Last night was… I’m sorry. We shouldn’t.”

He stared down at the worn, cracked table. “Is that so?” he whispered. 

She nodded. “It was just one of those things. That happens,” she said. “But it won’t again.” He could not form the words to say that it didn’t just happen, not to him. That he was not sorry it had. She looked at him, her eyes betrayed her nervousness.

“Fearnhe,” he said, “Are you afraid of me?” 

She looked away. “No,” she said, unconvincingly. 

His hands felt cold. “I promise you,” he said, “I would never hurt you.” 

“You don’t know that,” she snapped. “Like this,“ she said, a hand on her armored chestplate, “I’m safer. I don’t have your… blood. But I can defend myself.” She shook her head. “In there,” she said, nodding toward the room they had shared, “I’m exposed. I’m weak,” she muttered. 

He was weighed down by her fear, wanted to put a hand on her arm, to reassure her, but was afraid to. “I can control it,” he whispered. “You’ve seen. We all can.” 

Her eyes searched his, measuring him. “Can you get rid of it?” 

He blinked, leaning back. Surprising to hear it from her, but it was not a new idea to him. So many times, he had asked himself that very question. Had researched, had found the means, planned with Kodlak, then changed his mind. Decided it was who he was, for life, that the Circle needed the blood, that the blood was good. And then again, after a time, after a dangerous change, a painful one, he thought again: _Can I be rid of it? Should I be rid of it?_

Would he remove the curse of the blood, the _gift_ of the blood, for Fearnhe? No. Even in this lust-addled, romantic state of mind he knew that was a foolish notion. But for himself, for his brothers and sisters in the blood, for Kodlak… he may try.

He nodded slowly to her. “It can be done. In theory.” 

Fearnhe smiled, a guarded smile that did not reach her sad eyes, but a smile he was grateful for all the same. “All right.”

She stood from the bench they shared, sighing. “We’d better find you that healer. Day’s half gone already, you slept so late.” She leaned forward to pick up her back from the floor, and gave him the smile he was used to, that challenging, sarcastic smile he felt himself longing for. “Told you that you needed rest, old man.” 

He stood, too, looking down at her with a cold smirk. But he knew it was betrayed by the pleasure he felt in gazing at her, last night’s fervor for her shifting into… something much more tender. “Then we’d better get back to Jorrvaskr before I die on you.” 

Fearnhe laughed. “Good plan,” she said, and dragged him by the arm toward the door.


End file.
